


Knock On Death's Door

by ThatSoChangeableChick



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Batman is Hurt, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10450269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSoChangeableChick/pseuds/ThatSoChangeableChick
Summary: Batman is half-dead. His fate is in Red Hood's hands.~~~Jason kicked his buckled boot, hard.Still, zilch.Bastard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey ya'll!
> 
> It's been a while, getting back into loving writing again, hope you like it!

On another emerald-tinged night, he might've rejoiced but nah, that's not now. The sharp flashes and warps had receded, and sure, while the mere thought of the old bastard boils his blood it wasn't…that, not anymore. It just wasn't worth it.

Hate took energy, and there's only so much a near endless supply of chilidogs can restore. So, when the awe-inspiring, fear-inducing crime-lord the Red Hood wandered through a recently abandoned neighborhood block and found a near dead bat, his first thought isn't hotblooded murder.

His first thought is 'seriously?' His first _reaction_ is to snort.

Beside the East End, there'd been a shoot-out. Two budding crime-rings trying to claim the same square feet and they'd reacted like rabid wolves locked in a very small cage. It wasn't his business, he'd made certain the working girls underneath his protection were out the area and sat down for prime-time reality murder sport.

It'd been fun, while it lasted. Then all the blood against blood, and gunfire against gunfire became monotone and he'd gotten bored, wandered off to check a sudden lead he'd connected for a case against a sick, demented bastard that preferred the babies to the candies. In his neighborhood, this sort of thing doesn't lie still.

In the end, it'd been a dead-end. Just how Jason liked it. But, anyhow, that'd been before and this was now. Now included that antiquated old bastard slumped against a blood speckled wall, partially hidden behind crates of semi-automatic machine guns and sub-automatic shotguns.

In nearly mint-condition, serial numbers scrapped off. It was a good sell. Too bad the bat ruined that. He did that. In some sort of Machiavellian play, the defeated thugs littered the concrete floor. It's actually what drew him in, there'd been a thug falling out a smashed window and another stopping the front door from slamming shut so it'd knocked into the thug's ribs.

The faint knacks music in the emptied street.

He kicked Bruce's buckled boot. Absolute zilch. It's not even funny anymore, the longer it takes for Bruce to move, the more he looks exhausted, defeated, _old_. It's freaking him out a bit. "Oi," he nudged Bruce's thigh, "You waking up, old man?"

Course, nothing. Probably just to be a bastard. He could've grunted, it's what the bastard is good at nowadays, isn't it? Not that Jason would know too much about that.

He should call someone. Take a few pictures. Beat up the Bat. Murder the Bat.

He should abandon the Bat to his fate.

It'll be Bruce's turn to live with it, if he did. It's definitely not up to Jason to rescue Batman – not anymore, fucker – whether the gang members wake up first to finish the job, or the scavengers in-route spare him, or even, if the police arrive this month and bring him in.

Or, maybe it'd be the corrupt police. Or, maybe some naïve asshole will try to save the Bat and get themselves murdered. Even fucking unconscious, the bastard causes problems.

Jason kicked his buckled boot, hard.

Still, zilch.

Bastard.

Fine. His lungs filled and Jason released it, found a slow, thready pulse and lifted Bruce's tree trunk arm from his injured side. .50 caliber, probably a shotgun, close range. Definitely took a portion of his ribs with it. Ouch, that had to hurt. He snickered and fingered the wound, noted the gritty purplish substance on his glove and tutted. Bastard was going to get himself killed like this.

"I expect a Get Out of Arkham Asylum Free Card for this," Jason murmured. He found Batman's most widespread antidote – same pouch since his days as Robin – and emptied it, in the wound and around it. It was glamorous, alright. That's his life, fucking luxurious, mansion in Upper Crest Hill luxurious.

His jeans are bloody ruined – see, what he did there – and Jason wants out. He tapped Batman's bloodied scruff, "You waking up, B? This century? Before you bleed out." Not a flinch. He is not…concerned, his fist tightened, knuckles rapped on his jaw. "I don't recommend it, suffocation is all on the rave right now, which might happen with your lung exposed like that."

This…freaking bastard, was going to make him do it, wasn't he? He's not even conscious and still succeeding at grating his skin. He wanted to growl, "I hate you," But it likened an exhale. His utility belt's communication function was down, shattered by bullets, but the Bat Mobile controls still operated.

Jason was always good at returning to the scene of the crime. He flipped the device, tucked them into his jeans and stuffed their latest medical gauze inside the wound. It'd keep the bastard from bleeding out, for a while at least. Batman flinched as Jason secured it, which made Jason jump until the head lolled again.

His bloodied jaw was paler than usual, droplets of sweat from underneath the cowl. If a poisoned shotgun wound took Batman out, Jason would be so freaking pissed. He tried to wipe his hands, blood dried and it layered, before he wrapped Batman's tree trunk arm around his shoulders and lifted from his knees. "You need to lay off the crumpets, asshole," Jason gritted, began to drag Bruce out.

Usually Jason had height advantage, apparently two inches meant a lot in the distribution of weight department. It took longer than it should to weave around the odd gangbanger, his shoulders ached and his throat strained beneath the weight. He would need about five levels of shower after this; one for sweat, two for pain management, and three for blood.

Course when he exited the gangbangers warehouse he's accosted, by the good folk, which is even worse than the bad folk. People called for his head rather than praise it if he stuck lead in their head. He heard the shout, "Put your hands in the air!" the clicks of safety from police-issued handguns, and looked to the smog covered stars for guidance.

Well, Jason tried. In a forced slowness – so, no one gets trigger-happy rather than concern for the gaping hole in his adoptive father's side – he set Batman against the door-jam, rolled the tightness in his shoulder and lifted his hands. Like, a goddamned asshole. He jerked a head, "Your furry savior needs medical attention. I can get him to it, all you got to do is let me do –"

Course, then righteous Commissioner Gordon exited a parked police vehicle to stand in front of his 5-0 pals. This was like getting judged by his bastard's father's friends, which actually wasn't as bad as being judged by Dick's friends. Course, before he'd cared more. Although, this might end in murder. His weathered hand is on his holstered gun, his moustache especially forlorn and dispersed in ash. Bad day, was it? "Red Hood," Gordon warned.

His helmet tilted – did Gordon know him? "Commish," Jason nodded. It was silent. Shit. He had to talk out of this. Now Jason could chatter, blabber, natter but it usually got him into more trouble than out of it. "If I wanted to kill him dead I would have done it," Jason noted.

'Kill him dead', that phrase, always a chuckle.

That – probably – didn't help.

Gordon's impressive jowls thickened, "Step away from Batman, Red Hood. Before, you do something you'll regret," he warned. As far as threats went, it was by the book. Gordon hadn't insulted his mother, privates, will for life or any other glaring weakness people had, no – straight-up lethal death. Either he was that simple, or that cold. There wouldn't be anything else, only death.

Poetic that. If it wasn't, from experience, a little inconclusive.

His hands raised, "Look," Jason tried.

If barrels weren't lined before, they'd hit dead frontal lobe right then. Seriously? Everyone felt better without those bastards he killed out there, East End clear except for his operation. That's no reason for the threat. Gordon huffed, "Listen, Son –" what the hell did he just call him, " – You can be taken in handcuffs or in a body bag. It's your choice."

"Shitty choice," Jason defied.

Gordon nodded, "You made your bed –" He was about to be called the S-Word again, Jason sensed it. Like, a chill before a storm or upcoming death. This was so not the time.

"Before you start the macho, tough-guy act, can I get the deadweight into his overcompensating car? Just in case, you don't want him to bleed out," he drily stated. Ah-ha, concern. Time to push it further, "If you don't believe me. You can check the poison infested wound, or – just stick a finger in, poke his collapsed lung. It is right there," he amicably noted.

Behind his lenses, Gordon's eyes narrowed, "You're a –"

"Criminal," Jason finished, jerked a thumb at Bruce, "So, is this guy. That's what I've been proclaiming for the royal you, you know."

Gordon remained unimpressed. Just at that, Mini-Him would have been in tears. Mini-Him was a naïve, wannabe fool. " –Murderer," Gordon finished. "Batman, as I'm certain you know, has the full support of my office. You, on the other hand, do not. And, I can't trust you won't –"

"He's my Dad," he said.

_Fuck._

He hadn't actually meant to say that. Instead of bolt, Jason shrugged – this was normal, on the agenda, no need for panic – "I don't want him dead. Had that once, got the T-shirt. Not a fan. Even zombie-brain wasn't an avid supporter –" he swirled at his head, " – and I doubt in the minute it takes me to haul his unconscious body to the driver's seat he'll piss me off enough to change my mind."

Great. This was in the plan. To air out his family troubles to five of Gotham's finest and Commissioner Gordon. Being swallowed by the earth and buried, didn't feel like a bad idea. He'd _probably_ survive the clawing back out phase. His reputation was in the dirt, he might as well join.

Gordon's eyes narrowed, all shifty and intrigued-like, "Son. Take off your helmet," Gordon ordered. It wasn't a Batman order though. It was more, 'I need confirmation before I agree with you' order, which out of all of them, is the one he hated the least and since there are guns at his person, answer is pretty obvious.

He grumbled and exhaled, in mock slowness unclasped his helmet and tucked it underneath an arm. Two of the five officers shuffled. He swiped a hand through the dark sweaty curls on his head, "Want me to take anything else off, Commish?" Jason drily taunted.

Gordon rasped, "How old are you, son?" His brow harshly furrowed, it was another confirmation under guidance that it wasn't. Gordon had asked Mini-Him that when he'd first began, it'd been November and freezing balls and Jason had felt alive.

He breached a wicked grin, "Old enough for you not to look at me like that," Jason repeated. His eyebrows waggled, a largely different connotation than the first time. This time, Jason heard the Commissioner swear and his officers began to lower their weapons, mostly from strained shoulder and arm muscles. Not everyone had a bats regime. "So," his domino-masked face felt exposed, "Bat. Car. Can I?"

If he would be shot after this, he'd be so fucking pissed. He'd haunt the culprit or, maybe, when he's resurrected he'd go on a revenge spree. That always pumped the zombified blood. Gordon breathed, harshly, through flared nostrils before he nodded, "I'll be watching, Son."

"I'm not your son, Commish," he finally stated. He didn't wait for word about that and except a harsh murmur between the officers; zilch. In those few moments Bruce exceeded his near-death state to death-incarnated. Course, B's mouth twitched.

Just has to be a contrite bastard.

He tapped Bruce's cheek, "Oi, daddio," he winced, "You dead yet?" See, that felt better. Batman's head stirred, stiffened at the registered – probably, agonizing – pain and focused on Jason. Behind the lenses, steel blues are wet and he might as well dive into the sweat pouring off.

He won't admit it but for a brief moment, Jason nearly panicked in the thought that Batman unconsciously classified him villain. His guttural breaths heaved, "…Jay…" It was quiet enough the Po-Po didn't hear. It didn't look like his big brain was up to function just yet.

His mouth quirked, "Hey, old man." Batman blinked with a weird expression Jason can't classify just yet. "Your back gave out so I – as your ever-faithful, underdressed partner – will put you into your overcompensating car, just this once," he declared and taunted.

In return, Batman's mouth quirked. That really was the weirdest face.

Jason hauled B's arm over his shoulder – satisfied by the pained grunt – into the street, barren if it weren't for the 5-0, and the woman peeking out the alley a little further back. "I've half a mind to bench you for this B, you think Agent A will go for it?" he nattered, just because he could. Last time he'd been this close Jason tried to murder the bat, tried to force the bat to understand what Jason did – how it was better, righter than his antiquated belief.

It hadn't worked out. Batman and Red Hood weren't meant to work together, understand one another – it wouldn't work, hell he didn't want the bat in his business – but he wouldn't let the old man die. For that little guilt that hadn't morphed to rage still squirmed behind his ribs, that's what kept Bruce alive in his hands. It wasn't anything but that.

B dry huffed and nearly hacked a lung, blood splattered the road in an arch and Jason inhaled. "You'll end in a ditch like this," Jason grunted and clicked a button on the liberated device. B shuddered and Jason hummed, "I should know. Take it from one walking corpse to a predestined one; embrace the void, sure they're privileges but I wouldn't count it 'worth it'."

B must've parked far, since it took three minutes for the Batmobile to swerve to a standstill. 5-0 gawked as Jason shucked B inside the darkened interior, definitely been upgrades – might have to break-in if curiosity and boredom won – and checked B's wound beneath shredded Kevlar. The white gauze had bled red, the visible pallid skin a flowered bluish black but it was his veins, stark and reddish purplish spanning from the wound.

Guess the miracle antidote didn't cover whatever had coated the bullet.

His throat lodged and Jason swallowed, flicked the autopilot and backed off. Once the door shut it'd zoom off, whether it'd be enough to save B wasn't up to Jason. "…wait, Jay…" B choked. This was definitely not the time for final words. Usually, those boiled his blood.

"Go, Old Man," he fists flexed, stuffed inside his pockets, "Before the two-pint demon blames me for that." He shouldered briefly at the bloodied bandage, drip-drip-dripping on fine leather inside and breathed, "Move it," Jason ordered.

B's cowl furrowed and haltingly breathed, "You-'re not de-ad." It sounded like it hurt, steel blues tormented and laser-focused on Jason. He swallowed and huffed, bundle in his chest squirmed. This, is what the world's greatest detective, focused on. It so wasn't the time for this.

"What gave it away, old man? You, on the other hand, will be –" Sad part was, it wasn't even a threat.

His blood-soaked hand is abruptly gripped, a faint tremor and despite the strain in B's form, it isn't harsh. In response, he stilled. "You don't believe that," B rasped. Anger was a shoddy defense mechanism but it was Jason's. "…you act as though life stopped after you…" And here, B faltered. Like, this was difficult to push forward.

In a second, anger deflated and Jason felt exhausted, face-down in a dream exhausted. Except, he is not. He stands here, acknowledging B's heart to heart as daylight peeks through thick clouds, and law enforcement get first row seats to Keeping Up with the Bat Clan. In that moment, he hates it. He just doesn't know what 'it' is. "It did," Jason growled.

It could be the audience, the issue discussed – his actual death, unburied 6 feet under – his best parental figure's failure, the failure in his bones, or that B only brought this deep dark thought up when he's near-death and poisoned. Life was never fair, but it never failed to startle him with that realization.

His hand is squeezed, lightly chiding while B's mouth twitched that odd expression again. "You're here, Jason," B insisted and rasped, "Live." It was an order, not the type he least hates either but Jason can finally describe the expression. It's fond and heartbroken, and it's a smile just for Jason.

He tried to huff but it fell short, "What do you think I'm doing, B?" His hand is warmed, weighed as B's strength slipped; locked with his feet planted and Jason realizes, he still trusts Bruce. With everything that has occurred, this doesn't confine Jason; B's presence is focused and intent but intimate instead of anxiety-inducing.

No one will ever know Jason like B did.

"You survive," Bruce murmured. It's fond, nonforbidden exasperated and _fond_ ; a familiar comfort when Jason believe he'd coated all those in razor wit and death-threats. B holds higher, probably for the whole neck embrace he'd been known to do in particularly emotive moments but it barely reaches Jason's elbow. His heart lurched, "You can live, Son…" B breathed, piece slurred and stated, his hand dropped.

His fists clenched but his smirk is timed, "If you say so, B," Jason murmured. It didn't feel like it's from his mouth, a separate being living off habits and old intentions. Is that what B meant? He does his job, keeps East End safe, reads books and watches bad movies, but there's no end date. There is no plan, there is nothing else but that.

Was that…wrong? That this was Jason's life? Was this really, all Jason wanted from life? There were moments of absent loneliness, short disconnectedness from life in his peripheral vision and brief 'what the hell am I doing' before work called. A distraction for his head. That fucker always did expect Jason to be better. To be more. To give more. But, maybe, B also wanted more for Jason.

He huffed, head shaken. What a bastard.

The Batmobile locked doors, skidded to a start and disappeared into a forked road. It was about time Jason did that too. From the Commissioner's harsh shout to the next, Jason is on a rooftop and fleeing into shadows even daylight won't touch. There's a single bullet released, hit a railing Jason launched over but after that. There's only Gotham staggering out of bed.

Bastard.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated ~~~***


End file.
